


How You Doing Buddy

by Mellow_Yellow



Series: Adventures in Babysitting [4]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Comfort, M/M, Sick Mickey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-13 01:44:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2132424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellow_Yellow/pseuds/Mellow_Yellow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ain't no party like a sick Mickey party cuz a sick Mickey party is...really whiny, actually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How You Doing Buddy

“It’s Mickey,” Svetlana said into the phone, and Ian's heart stuttered a little bit in immediate worry, but then she paused to cough, the noise sounding painful. Ian winced in sympathy, because he knew where this was going now. “He is sick.”

“Sounds like you’re sick too.”

“Yes, but I am not Ukrainian pussy,” she shot back, starting to cough again. Ian rolled his eyes from the other end of the phone, even though she couldn’t see him.

Ian had been surprised when he saw her name on his caller ID. He had expected her to be at work tonight, and when he got off at the Kash N Grab his plans had involved going home to babysit Yevgeny so Mickey could get down to the Alibi.

Svetlana’s coughing fit eased and she continued. “And Mandy is not here to watch brother, and I am not nursemaid.”

Ian balanced the phone on his shoulder as he took a drag of his cigarette. “I don’t get off for another hour, you think you guys’ll be okay til then?”

An offended silence followed. Finally Svetlana spoke, “Yes, I think we survive for one hour without Carrot Boy.”

“Take it easy, Iron Curtain. You called me,” Ian said. He took one last drag off his cigarette and stubbed it out under his boot. Shit but this whole quitting thing was hard. “How’s Baby Typhoid Mary doing?”

“Yevgeny?” Svetlana made a scoffing noise. “The baby is fine.” She sounded bitter. There was a moment of shuffling and then Ian heard soft breathing and a low cooing sound on the other end of the receiver as Svetlana held the phone to Yev’s ear. He heard Svetlana coaching the baby: “Say, ‘I am not longer sick.’ Tell Orange Boy, ‘I was only sick for twelve hours, but I make everyone else in house sick for much longer.’ Yes, you did.”

Yev didn’t repeat Svetlana’s words, instead babbling in baby language. Ian chuckled.

“I’ll be home soon. You want anything from the store?”

“Vodka. Bring me vodka.”

“One ginger ale it is.” Ian said goodbye and hung up over Svetlana’s protests. 

He sent Mickey a text: How you doing buddy?

He got a response almost immediately: doing fucking fine im not a fucking baby so go fuck yourself buddy.

Raising an eyebrow, Ian pocketed his phone and went back in the store to wait out the rest of his shift. He felt momentarily guilty, because he had been the one to suggest sending Yev to daycare on the days when all of them were scheduled to work so no one ended up calling off. They needed the money, and Debbie didn’t charge them anything now that she was running the show officially without Fiona (the neighbors were still wary around Ian's older sister after everything with Liam), but Ian had forgotten that babies were essentially illness incubators and daycare had always been a cesspool of runny noses and coughing and sudden fevers. 

When Yev had brought home a bug, Ian and Svetlana and Mickey had all worried over him and coddled him like he was the first baby to ever catch a cold. The baby had been sleeping and everyone else had seemed fine when Ian had left for work this afternoon however. Obviously that had been the calm before the storm.

Luckily, the neighborhood kid Linda had hired while Ian was away showed up on time to relieve him, for once. The kid, Andy, gave Ian his usual air-headed smile and slid behind the cash register, pulling out a comic book and settling in for a long shift of slacking off.

Ian grabbed cold medicine and some cans of soup,then forgot the ginger ale and had to lope back in to grab a couple of cans. He slapped the money on the counter in front of Andy, who didn’t look up from his manga, and he was out the door.

His shift had been peaceful, and he wasn’t too tired. The Kash N Grab was no night club, and he wasn’t really raking it in like he’d been when he was dancing, but he also wasn’t getting fucked up every night and doing things he wouldn’t be able to understand when he was no longer manic. So he considered it a fair enough trade.

He inhaled deeply as he walked. It was one of those rare days when he felt completely balanced. His meds were working, more or less, and he thought the combination he was on right now worked pretty well. He was still tired all the time, and he could still feel the agitation of the highs and the crushing weight of the lows just on the edge of his consciousness, cycling under his skin like some kind of mad circus ride, but it wasn’t enough to pull him under, at least not for now.

Mostly he just felt uneasy all the time, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Which wasn’t the worst feeling in the world, considering the alternative. But every once in a while he’d get a day like today, and he never thought feeling temporarily normal would make him tear up like a loon but walking along in the crisp fall air, he felt his nose start to burn. 

He felt so stable, and he wished there was some kind of deal he could strike with someone, anywhere, to feel this way all the time. He distracted himself by thinking that he may not need to watch Yevgeny tonight, but he was still going to be doing some babysitting, and he didn't have time to wallow.

He was actually hit by a weird burst of longing to get home and check on Mickey. It would be nice to be the one doing the spoiling and cosseting for once, and god knew Mickey deserved a little of it after what a trooper he’d been for the last few months. Ian felt himself speed up, a little anxious to get home.

When Ian got the Milkovich house, even from the outside things seemed oddly quiet.

His eyes found Mickey hunched on the couch as soon as he was in the door. “Hey,” he called out softly as he set down his plastic bag of sick supplies and came around the side of the couch. He saw Mickey trying to light a cigarette but having trouble bringing the flame close enough the way his hands were shaking.

“Hey, hey, what are you doing? You’re sick, smoking’s just going to make it worse.” Ian plucked the cigarette from Mickey’s hands. Mickey actually growled, swiping out to grab it back, but his reflexes were off and his hand went comically wide.

Ian sat down on the couch, eyeing Mickey. Svetlana hadn’t been lying, he looked pretty rough. He put his hands on Mickey’s shoulders so he could turn him to face Ian, scrutinizing his flushed face.

“I’m not sick,” Mickey said stubbornly like he could read Ian’s mind. He said it without even a trace of irony even as he was shivering so bad his shoulders were shaking under Ian’s hands.

“You’re literally about to keel over,” Ian observed. Even though he was holding Mickey lightly, Mickey winced a little at the touch, like his whole body ached. Ian let him go immediately, frowning in concern.

“Man, I’m just crazy hung over,” Mickey insisted. “I just got too fucked up last night.”

“Ah, I see,” Ian said. “Very manly and tough of you.” He resisted the urge to mention that they’d gone to bed together last night at 10 like the exhausted losers they were, falling asleep as soon as Ian wrapped Mickey up in his arms in that way Mickey always complained was too hot but somehow never got around to squirming away from during the night.

“Shut up,” Mickey grumbled, and he started to cough again. Ian took advantage of the moment to ease Mickey down onto the couch, and even though he protested weakly, he was too busy coughing to put up much of a fight.

“Where’s Svetlana?”

“The scissor sisters have been holed up in their room all afternoon,” Mickey said. He sounded almost bothered by it, like he was lonely. Ian felt his own face go soft and he was hit with an insane urge to just cuddle the hell out of Mickey, but he resisted. First things first: nurse Mickey back to health.

“Nika’s here, then?” Ian asked.

“Of course Nika’s here. Fucking Nika’s always here, there’s no fucking escape from Nika.” Mickey started coughing, pulling the comforter he’d dragged from their bedroom closer around his shoulders.

Ian privately found Nika creepy. She had this habit of following Svetlana with her eyes, like she was tracking her. It reminded Ian of a wolf. Svetlana seemed to bask in the attention though, so Ian kept his mouth shut. They spent most of their time together in Svetlana’s room, anyway.

He reached out and pressed the back of his hand to Mickey’s forehead, then pressed his other palm to his cheek, before moving it to the back of his neck. It was something Fiona always did when Ian or the other kids were a sick, press her cool hands all over their face more than was strictly necessary to detect a fever because she knew the feeling soothing. 

Sure enough, Mickey leaned into the touch. “Fuck,” he muttered, his eyes gliding shut. Ian frowned. Mickey was burning up. He pushed his hair back from his sweaty forehead and Mickey leaned a little further, sighing.

“You taken any medicine yet?”

“I’m not fucking sick,” Mickey said sharply.

Ian rolled his eyes, changing the subject to lull Mickey into a false sense of security before he struck. “Where’s Yev?”

“You mean the little harbinger of disease? He’s taking a nap,” Mickey said sourly. He glanced at Ian defensively. “I mean, he got Svetlana sick. I’m not sick. I’m—”

“—hung over. Totally,” Ian finished for him, taking his hand from the back of Mickey's neck to wrap it lightly under his chin. He winced when he felt how swollen the glands right under his jaw were. “One of those 24-hour hang overs, I hear they’ve been going around.”

“I’m not fucking sick, stop fucking saying I’m sick.”

“I didn’t fucking say you were sick. Since you’re obviously not sick,” Ian said. “I’ll just go check on Yev and Svetlana.”

Mickey’s eyebrows furrowed anxiously. “So you’re just gonna leave?”

He took his hands off Mickey’s face, pretending not to see how the other boy chased the touch for a beat before pulling back and scowling. “I’m not leaving, I’m just going to check on the baby,” he said. And stealthily retrieve the cold medicine before Mickey swooned like a movie starlet right in front of him, Ian added to himself.

Mickey looked betrayed. “Fine, fuck off then!” he bit out acidly, or as acidly as he could with his sore throat. More like wheezed indignantly. 

“Good lord,” Ian sighed, finally getting a little irritated as he moved to stand up.

Mickey immediately softened and grabbed his arm. “Wait, don’t leave.”

Ian looked at Mickey, who was grasping Ian’s arm, eyes pleading even as his mouth was set in a mulish line, all pasty yet flushed and clammy with fever at the same time. It was a pretty pathetic sight.

Sighing, Ian settled back against the couch and waited for Mickey to collapse back as well, curling into the side of the couch. Mickey was watching him warily though, his eyes glassy and a little wild, like he was waiting for Ian to bolt or was considering how to make a break for it himself.

“Calm down.” Ian wrapped a hand around his ankle, feeling how hot Mickey’s skin was to the touch. “I’m not going anywhere. Just relax.” He rubbed his thumb over the knobby bump at the bottom of his ankle and Mickey practically melted into the touch. He was a sucker for a foot rub, and Ian regularly exploited this knowledge. Now he took the opportunity to pull Mickey’s left foot closer and press his thumb firmly into the arch. Mickey moaned and went limp.

It only took a few minutes before Mickey had drifted off, dozing fitfully and snuffling noisily through his blocked sinuses. Ian watched him, equal parts fond and annoyed, because Mickey could be a real pain in the ass when he felt even slightly vulnerable.

He eased carefully away, bending to rearrange the comforter to cover his body more evenly, and left him on the couch.

He brought the groceries to the kitchen and set a pot on the stove to heat the soup. While that heated, he poured the pop into a glass and snapped out a few pills from their plastic casing. Steeling himself for Nika’s weird, intense energy, he knocked quietly on Svetlana’s door.

“Hey,” he called softy. “I got Svetlana some ginger ale.”

He expected Nika to be the one to open the door the way she always did when she was over, like she was guarding her mate from intruders, but instead it was Svetlana’s pale, tired expression that faced him. “That does not look like vodka,” she said, looking at the glass in Ian’s hand irritably.

“You got it in one, nice job,” he said. He pressed the pills and the glass into her hand. “How you feeling?”

“I am fine,” she said. “I would be better if I not have to listen to whining baby.”

Ian raised an eyebrow. “I thought Yev was asleep?”

She gave him a flat look. “I not talk about that baby.”

Ian glanced over his shoulder into the living room at the rumpled shape of Mickey’s sleeping form. And yeah, maybe he agreed Mickey was laying it on a little thick, but he still wasn’t going to let Svetlana rag on him when he was too weak to defend himself. “He’s just not used to being the sick one, I think it’s freaking him out.”

Svetlana made an exhausted, frustrated sound. “Whatever. Now that you are here, you can watch poor sick baby, because I am not on clock.”

“Off the clock,” Ian corrected absently.

Svetlana gave him an unamused look and opened her mouth to argue, but there was a murmuring voice behind her. Svetlana’s face immediately softened. “I am coming, my love,” she said over her shoulder. With one last glare at Ian, she shut the door in her face. He rolled his eyes and headed back to the kitchen.

The soup was warm by now and he poured it into a bowl. He balanced another cup of ginger ale in his elbow and grabbed the box of cold medicine with his free hand and walked carefully back into the living room. 

When he sat on the couch, the movement startled Mickey awake.

"Whaaa...flergen,” Mickey huffed out nonsensically as he shot upright, gaze darting around. He saw Ian and relaxed slightly, rubbing wrathfully at his eyes. He immediately pulled both hands back under the comforter, shivering, only his head poking out of the fluffy blanket. “Fuck, how long was I out?”

“Ten minutes. I’ll try and catch you up any current events you missed,” Ian said. He held out the bowl of soup. “Here, you need to eat something with the cold medicine.”

“I’m not sick. I don’t need medicine,” Mickey protested, but he eyed the soup with interest. He didn’t move to bring an arm out of the warmth of his comforter cocoon, though. Instead he looked at the soup, then up at Ian, then back at the soup.

Ian raised an eyebrow. “You serious right now?”

Mickey huffed. “Fuck you.” But he looked so uncomfortable, shivering under the comforter, cheeks flushed, and Ian decided he was going Full Nursemaid. He scooped up a spoonful of soup and held it to Mickey’s mouth.

Who took a sip and promptly spat it back in the bowl, the liquid splashing back up on impact and splattering Ian’s hands.

“Fuck, hot!” Mickey yelped. He glared at Ian accusingly, like Ian was a villain who had spent his whole day plotting how to accidentally burn the roof of Mickey’s mouth with soup.

"You're killing me here," Ian said, but it was more fond than anything, because Mickey was sick, and he was probably uncomfortable and in pain, and most importantly he needed to eat. So Ian took pains to carefully blow on the next spoonful before bringing it to Mickey’s mouth.

Mickey swallowed and made a face. “That tastes like shit. I want ice cream.”

“We don’t have ice cream. Besides, this is better for you when you’re sick,” Ian said patiently. 

“You’re annoying,” Mickey said, but he let Ian feed him half a bowl of soup before pulling all the way back. His eyes were drooping.

“And you’re sick. Stop fighting it,” Ian said.

“I’m not sick. I’m not a fucking pussy,” Mickey retorted sourly. 

“It’s not just pussies who get sick, Mickey,” Ian said quietly. He knew Mickey hadn’t been thinking, but still. Fuck, the hurt kind of surprised Ian as it squeezed his chest with sudden intensity.

Mickey glanced at him quickly, eyes darting away guiltily. “Sorry,” he said gruffly, and Ian immediately forgave him in his head, but Mickey wasn’t distracted from his whining for long. “But you don’t need to fucking baby me, I’ll be fine. Just need to sleep it off.”

“You don’t have to make everything harder for yourself," Ian pointed out. "Just admit you’re sick and take the cold medicine."

“I’m not sick, it’s just allergies. And I’m hung over. Fuck,” Mickey said, narrowing eyes like his head was aching. “Leave me alone.”

Ian was honestly kind of surprised Mickey was so bad at being sick, which was maybe just dumb on his part. He’d always thought of Mickey as kind of stoic in a crisis, or at least emotionally constipated, depending how irritated he was with him at the moment. But then, he’d never seen him sick, had he? He cast his mind back, and nope, Mickey had never been on the other side. He’d always been the one to take care of Ian, especially when he’d been on his ass for weeks at a time, low as hell. At the time, Ian had been dimly impressed by how well suited Mickey was to the whole care taking role. He’d been so good at keeping it together as their lives were splintering, or at least it had felt that way to Ian at the time.

But maybe Mickey’s true talent was taking care of the handful of people he cared most about, not taking care of himself. He seemed almost allergic to admitting that maybe, just once, he needed someone to take care of him. The realization made Ian feel a pang of affection and exasperation at the same time.

Beside him, Mickey was busy trying to haul himself of the couch, still wrapped up like a mummy. “Fuck this, I want a fucking beer.”

“Come the fuck on, Mickey,” Ian said, looping an arm to pull him back down, struggling to get a grip through the comforter. He tried to be gentle, even as Mickey fought a little and swung an arm back, albeit feebly.

“A little hair of the dog, it’s all I need,” Mickey pleaded, but the fight went out of him relatively quickly. He sagged back against Ian, his mouth turning down miserably. “Fuck this, this fucking sucks.”

Ian could sympathize, but he refused to relent until he got some cold medicine down the other boy’s stupid stubborn throat. He set Mickey to his side back on the couch and popped out two cold pills from the package on the coffee table instead. Mickey screwed up his nose, but Ian wasn’t having it.

“Don’t make me hold your mouth closed and rub your throat like a cat,” he warned. 

“Goddamnit,” Mickey said, but he opened his mouth grudgingly and let Ian put the pills on his tongue, and held his head still as Ian pressed the glass to his lips. Mickey took two deep gulps of ginger ale and then had to pull back to cough, the force of the hacking sending him back into the arm of the couch. When the coughing stopped, he looked ready to conk out again but Ian pulled on his arm.

“No, come on. Let’s get you in bed,” Ian said. It was barely dark outside but he had a feeling when Mickey fell asleep next, it would be for the night.

“It’s cool man, just going to rest my eyes,” Mickey mumbled, eyes easing shut. 

Desperate times, Ian decided, and reached to wrap both arms around Mickey and his giant comforter cocoon, practically scooping the other boy up and out of the couch. 

“Fuck!” Mickey squawked, batting weakly at Ian’s arms. “Put me down, man.”

“Such a grumpy little fucker,” Ian said, subduing him easily so he could gather him up in his arms as best he could. It was not an elegant hold, more like trying to soothe a struggling cat, but he eventually managed to get an arm under his knees and hoist him up against his chest. “Just let me take care of you for once,” he said quietly, and Mickey stopped struggling, almost wilting in Ian’s arms.

Ian got them both into the bedroom and did his best to deposit Mickey gently onto the bed, letting Mickey flop forward and bury his face into a pillow. He stayed still as Ian arranged the comforter over him, then pulled off his shirt and jeans to join Mickey under the cover in his boxers.

Looking at the miserable shape of Mickey huddled under the covers, shivering and tense, Ian tried to figure out the best way to touch him. He remembered what it felt like when he was low, how too much pressure had made it feel like his skin was on fire. He figured Mickey was achy with his fever, so he settled on running his fingers up and down the soft skin on his arm, skating his fingertips under the sleeve of his t-shirt to lightly tickle his shoulders. Mickey shivered, but in pleasure this time. 

Mickey shifted onto his side so his back was facing Ian pointedly. Ian took the hint and took up the same light, tickling pressure across Mickey’s shoulders, then from the top of his spine down to the small of his back. Some of the tension seemed to ease out of the shorter boy. 

Ian took a moment to run his hands through Mickey’s hair with the same light touch. Mickey heaved a loud, glum sigh.

“I hate being sick,” Mickey said in a low voice. “I don’t know how you fucking stand it.”

Ian’s hand went still, trying to pick his words carefully. “Don’t really have a choice,” he said finally, trying to sound casual.

“That’s not what I meant,” Mickey said, sounding frustrated with himself, and he struggled to turn around to face Ian, even as he grimaced at the movement.

“Hey, it’s okay, you don’t have to—”

But Mickey was on his other side now, so he hushed Ian with a tired, “Shut up.” He swallowed painfully around his sore throat. “I meant, I don’t know how you stand it because I don’t think I could. It’s just…you’re really brave.” His eyes were closing like it was too much work to keep them open anymore. His voice went a little dreamy. “Seriously. So brave….” he trailed off.

Ian pulled him a little closer to his chest, trying to smile even though he felt a little choked up. 

“You’re kind of a sweetheart sometimes, you know that?” Ian said. Mickey made a growling sound but he didn’t open his eyes. Ian trailed his fingertips up and down Mickey’s arms, making the other boy shiver again. “Even when you’re doped up on cold medicine.”

Mickey didn’t fall asleep right away, he was still too feverish and achy to get comfortable, but he let Ian keep soothing him with the same light tickling motions, and he stayed pressed close to Ian’s side, his shivering subsiding when he was close to the extra body heat.

In the quiet of their bedroom, Ian let himself enjoy the knowledge that he was the one taking care of Mickey for once. He let himself enjoy even more the realization that Mickey was letting him, actually seeming to being enjoying the soft petting and Ian quietly asking if he needed anything, if he wanted more ginger ale or another blanket, growing slowly less hostile. He could have just been falling to sleep, but Ian preferred to believe that Mickey was letting Ian be the stable one for once. 

As Mickey finally went heavy with sleep against Ian’s side, he twisted a little to press a kiss to his damp hair. 

That night, Ian didn’t sleep much, lost in his own thoughts, which was why he could pinpoint almost the exact second Mickey’s fever broke. His body had been pressed against Ian’s, red hot and sweaty, when in a weird kind of gradual cascade his skin turned cool. Still sweaty though, possibly more sweaty, Ian thought, trying to smooth Mickey’s inky hair off his forehead. He watched in quiet amazement as Mickey’s whole body began to unwind. 

He threw the comforter back to give Mickey’s recently overheated body a break, enjoying watching his shoulders twitch at the sudden coolness. Ian pulled him a little closer, heedless of how clammy he still was, for no other reason than he was just stupidly glad that Mickey wasn’t so uncomfortable anymore. Ian wasn’t even the one who’d been sick this time, but he still felt the sting of relief, so piercing it made his chest ache.

He was surprised to notice that he still felt balanced like he had earlier. He didn’t know how long it would last, he knew it was a temporary reprieve from the more familiar out-of-sorts feeling he had on his medication. But while he had it, he let himself bask in it.

Ian used to think all he wanted was to be happy. He used to think the incandescent lightness of mania was the purest happiness he’d ever known. Lying in the dark clasping his sweaty, sick, whiny boyfriend to his chest, he decided he was wrong, because he wouldn’t trade this moment of calm for anything in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been a little slow to update this series, because I've been working on another multi-chap fic alongside and they kind of have different tones. Also I'm turning in my dissertation TOMORROW (ow owwww!) so I've been a little off the grid. But that ends TOMORROW!
> 
> To sum up: One or two more in this series, than a darker multi-chap AU coming your way, you goofballs are awesome, over and out.
> 
> Also! I have a tumblr now, so if you want to holler at me over there, go nuts: ohjafeeljadefinitelyfeel.tumblr.com


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